


Dulles

by Kahvi



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Humor, M/M, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A forced stay at the aptly named Dulles Airport spells trouble for the MJN crew, and, following an unexpected revelation from Arthur, acute sexual confusion for Martin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dulles

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** _Cabin Pressure, Martin Crieff/Arthur Shappey, when Arthur cheerfully mentions that he's in love with him, but that it's all right, he knows Martin would never be interested, Martin is too shocked by the idea that someone actually likes him to worry about the fact that the feeling appears to be mutual._
> 
> Massive thanks to m'coll for her encouragement and beta! 
> 
> The dullness of Dulles International Airport exaggerated for comedic effect. Please consider MJN for your next fictional flight!

O'Hare was not, on the whole, one of Martin's favorite airports, in as much as he had any. He rarely had much time to look around any of them, and even when he did, he could never afford to buy anything or try any of the lackluster and (always, even in countries where the rate of inflation was so bad they could no longer fit the required number of zeroes onto their currency) overpriced food and drinks. No matter how artistic and cutting-edge their architects and interior decorators thought they were, there were only so many variations you could do on the theme of 'combined indoor shopping center and waiting room', so sightseeing wasn't really on the menu either. (He shouldn't think of menus; it had been a particularly bad month for men with... ven, and as a consequence, Martin had tried to skip eating outside of work, when he could usually scrounge something from what could only be described as GERTI's ominously stocked galley.) That said, even he had to admit the Chicago hub was more than bordering on depressing. Even the Business Class lounges looked murky and dreary, at least from what he could see of them through the murky, dreary windows on the murky, dreary doors. At least, Martin told himself, staring longingly at the bored-looking middle aged couple walking through the doors in question, they would have nibbles. Great, now he was thinking about food again. It really was like trying not to think of a pink- "Arthur?"

"Hello, Skip!"

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"I hesitate to ask, but is there any particular reason..." Martin had only intended it as a figure of speech, but he found simply could not face the end of the sentence without ample bracing time, "why you're wearing _that?_ "

"What; my uniform?"

Martin tried to nod, not wishing to commit entirely to the gesture. "Is it, though?"

"Eh?" Arthur, in the calm and cheerful manner he infuriatingly always had in these situations (or, indeed, _any_ situation), smiled cheerfully and calmly waited. Martin couldn't remember the last time he had been cheerful, much less calm; properly calm, without any dread of things past, present or future.

"It's not _technically_ your uniform, is it?"

“What do you mean?”

"Well, firstly - and call me a pedant if you like - there's the fact that MJN doesn't _have_ a uniform."

"You've got one. And Douglas has one, just like yours!"

"A size or two larger, yes; Carolyn got them off Air England when they changed theirs, and dyed them, which brings me to my next point - _pink._ "

Arthur beamed. "Yeah."

"You're wearing _pink_."

"Yeah."

"...why?"

"To celebrate! It's my lucky color."

Ideally, there were several points in that statement that Martin would have liked to address, but unfortunately, they were running rather short on time. "Never mind; did you find Ms. Tourian?"

"Yeah, I did," Arthur pointed, "she's over there."

"What; in the lounge? But we looked there!"

"No, but she is," Arthur pointed again, more firmly, which required a sort of jump, followed by a jab that nearly took out the eye of the formidable woman exiting the KLM lounge. She was pale to the point of whitish gray, wore a suit almost the exact same color of the walls,  
and stared at them with a murky, grubby sort of expression.

"You MJN air?"

"We try to be, Madam," Martin told her, shooing Arthur off to – he hoped - get changed before departure. It was definitely going to be one of _those_ flights. Not that they ever had any other.

* * *

"She's a barrel of laughs, isn't she?"

Martin sighed, settling back into the pilot's seat. They were twenty two minutes delayed, because the elusive Ms. Tourian hadn't bothered to show up on time, infuriating everyone - except Arthur, naturally - further by failing to be at all confrontational about it. The woman  
was blander than boiled cabbage. "She's not here to entertain us, Douglas."

"I hope to god we're not her to entertain her. I spent two minutes watching her board, and I'm positive she drained part of my soul."

" _We're_ not, but Arthur _is_."

"Mm." Douglas leaned back, looking far more relaxed than he should be, in preparation for a takeoff. "That's all right then."

"Is it, really?" Martin busied himself with pre-flight protocol, seeing as how Douglas didn't seem all that bothered to do so.

"Well, _yes_ ; if anyone's immune to boredom, it's Arthur Shappey."

"You're probably right."

"I'm always right."

Martin wanted to protest, but he always got nervous when lying, and they had a plane to fly.

* * *

The good thing about a short flight was fairly obvious. The _bad_ thing about a short flight, certainly from Martin's current point of view, was the lack of food. Normally, there would at least be a cheese tray, but Ms. Tourian was vegan _and_ lactose intolerant and had listed a further set of allergies that had sent Carolyn off on a very long telephone call with MJNs lawyer (a distant cousin whom Martin had the impression owed her several expensive favors). So, no cheese, no nibbles, and certainly no alcohol, not that it would have benefitted Martin. Twice, his stomach started rumbling so loudly that he had to excuse himself and hide in the crew toilet until it stopped, giving serious consideration to eating the sickly green soap, or worse, the bag of peanuts that had been kept in there for as long as Martin had worked here.

Just how long was that, he contemplated, on his second stay, while counting the minutes until Douglas would get suspicious and send Arthur in to get him? Certainly more than three years - was it four, already? Surely not. It was a sobering thought; every miserable year brought him closer to forty, and no pay rise. No _pay_ , period.

Martin sighed, and got to his feet, which had the unfortunate side effect of seeing his face in the mirror. As if pushing forty (just six years now, and he'd be there) wasn't enough, he looked no older than twelve. A pre-teen who had borrowed his dad's work clothes that were two sizes too big for him, and trying to compensate with a mortally serious expression. _What are you doing with your life_ , he told the pre-teen accusingly, _have you no decency?_ He knew what the _sensible_ option was; the _sensible_ option, the only sane option, really, was to find a job that actually paid money, and stop throwing his life away on a half-arsed idea of what he _wanted_ his life to be.

Of course, the _sensible_ option would require being sensible. Martin pretended to flush the toilet, and got out. Which he should, really.

Before it was too late.

* * *

"Please tell me you haven't been wearing that throughout the entire flight." Martin gritted his teeth, fighting back the headache that had been trying to come through for hours. He probably shouldn't grind his teeth too hard; he'd be tempted to eat them.

"Oh no; he changed while you were in the loo; Arthur keeps a series of outfits in the galley storage compartments for just such a wardrobe emergency."

Martin frowned. "Really?"

Douglas sighed, deeply. "No, of _course_ not - are you all right, Martin? You're even more credulous than usual."

"I'm _fine_."

"Hm."

"And don't you 'hm' me; I know what that means; it means you don't believe me, and that you're going to _think_ about it, and get back with the worst possible interpretation when I'm not on my guard! And then I'll have to sit here and look at your smug face the entire flight, which will probably be six to ten hours if I'm lucky, which we both know I'm not!"

Martin gasped for air, pulling at the straps of his harness. Douglas was very carefully not saying anything at all. Arthur was still in the doorway, holding two cups of what was presumably.... something. "None of you for coffee, then?" He asked, hesitantly.

"I think," Douglas said, straightening his jacket, "that we all could do with a bit of lunch."

* * *

While the crew's internal clocks pointed unquestionably to 'lunchtime', it was well after five in the evening at the not-so-scenic Dulles airport, and presumably in the District of Columbia surrounding it. Or was it? That was the sort of thing he should know, being a pilot, which was why landing in Washington, D.C. always made Martin slightly nervous that someone might come along and ask him. He wasn't even entirely sure which state they were in at the  
moment. He was, however, ravenously hungry, and it felt surprisingly satisfactory to be absolutely certain about one thing, even if it was just that you were going to devour the plate of hot-sauce drenched chicken wings piled up in front of you.

They had three hours to spare before having to return to Fitton with half a dozen jetlagged and hung over MPs on their way back from a conference, which would at least be a nice and quiet night flight (though highly against regulations and law, given the fact that they had already spent nearly three hours in the air). Martin forced himself to take his time with the food for about two minutes, before delving into a finger-licking frenzy. Arthur happily ignored him, busy as he was with his sandwich and chips, and the neverending story he was telling Douglas, which seemed to have something to do with sheep not needing to wear cardigans. Douglas, as he tended to in these situations, was pretending to drink. Martin sometimes wondered if it had some sort of placebo effect.

"Speaking of which," Douglas smoothly interrupted Arthur's flow of words just as Martin was gnawing the last remnants of assorted chicken parts off his assorted chicken bones, "what's the occasion?"

"What do you mean?" Arthur finished his really rather ale-looking ginger ale.

"I've only seen you wear that particular _ensemble_ once before."

"He's worn it _before?_ " It seemed hard for Martin to imagine that any of the clothes involved in Arthur's outfit were even sold in stores; certainly in adult sizes.

"Oh, yes. About five years ago." Douglas pursed his lips in sudden recollection. "Hang on, it was the first flight of that so-called pilot from Swansea – you wore it for luck, you said!"

"What was he like?" Martin had never heard much about his predecessor. Or even if there had been more than one. Part of him did wonder who could possibly have been _less_ qualified than him, but it wasn't a part that came out very often, unless the parts surrounding it were too drunk to keep repressing it.

"You know, the usual; bronzed, leanly muscled; just a _hint_ of distinguished grey; rather like me, in fact. Lovely chap."

" _Was_ he." Martin pushed the remnants of his meal about, just in case there were some edible parts of it left that he might have missed. Missed. Hang on... "You said 'so-called' - what was wrong with him?"

"He wasn't actually a pilot," Arthur said, returning from the bar with a new round of drinks, handing Martin another light beer.

" _What?_ "

"Mum checked his papers and that, and it looked like was all in order; she even phoned his references, but it turned out-"

"-it turned out the lot had been provided from one of those companies that specialize in 'joke' credentials. Which, of course," Douglas waved a cautionary finger, "you must never _ever_ use for any sort of _illegal_ shenanigans."

"I see."

"Mum got a bit shouty when she found out."

"How _did_ she find out?"

"There was a bit where Douglas sort of had to..."

"Land the plane. As it were."

"Oh."

"He kept saying it looked so much easier in the game."

"Ah."

"Anyway, that's why I was wearing my lucky color. To celebrate his first flight! Only, my shoes got scuffed when we landed-"

"-or a close approximation thereof-"

"-so I had to get new ones." Arthur held his bright pink shoes up, to illustrate. It might have been the lighting, but Martin could have sworn there were _sequins_ on them.

"Arthur," Douglas sighed, "I keep telling you, there's no such thing as a 'lucky' color. The term, I believe, you are looking for, is _favorite_."

Arthur scoffed, nearly spilling his drink. "Pink isn't my _favorite_ color; that's _clear_."

"Arthur..."

"You know, because that's what prisms are, and you can see _rainbows_ through them. That's brilliant!"

"Quite literally," Douglas muttered into his non-drink.

"But pink is my _lucky_ color, because when I was in hospital as a baby, you know, because I'd born, and that?"

Martin nodded. "I'm vaguely familiar with the process." Douglas raised an eyebrow, but Martin glared at him and dared him to comment. He didn't.

"Well, they didn't have any more blue blankets left, so they gave me a pink one. And that's how they stopped me turning into a girl."

Martin opened his mouth, casting about for a way in which to attack the sheer... Arthur-ness of that statement, when his phone rang, to the unmistakable tune of AC/DC's 'Thunderstruck'. He and Douglas exchanged less agitated glances. "Right," he said. "That'll be Carolyn."

* * *

"But we're in a pub," Martin protested feebly after the third time Carolyn insisted he put her on speaker. "Yes... I appreciate that there are no pubs in America, but we're sort of..." he glanced around nervously, "there are _people_ here." He sighed, feeling Douglas and Arthur's eyes on him as he pressed the button.

_"...a reason why I got you that telephone!"_

"The old one caught fire after that weekend flight to Berlin?"

_"Yes, and now that I have provided you with a communications device, I would ask that you use it for its intended purpose- ah. Is that the delightful sounds of overpriced drinks I'm hearing?"_

"Good evening, Carolyn."

_"Yes, good afternoon Douglas, etc. etc. - is my idiot child within range?"_

"Hello, mum!" Arthur waved, much to the confusion of their fellow diners.

_"Light of my life, do you recall at all, I wonder, our conversation before this particular flight?"_

"The one we always have?"

_"That's the one. And what do I tell you?"_

"Not to clown around."

_"And?"_

"Not to bother the customers."

_"And what, I wonder, did you do on this particular flight?"_

"Ah..."

_"I ask because I have just gotten off the phone with a somewhat irate Mrs. Tourian, our erstwhile client, asking me why an 'English clown' had been bothering her throughout the flight."_

"A...h."

Martin glanced at Douglas, who shook his head, quietly. Neither of them had seen Mrs. Tourian disembark, but then again, most MJN customers didn't usually bother saying goodbye.

_"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"_

"Honestly mum, I just did the usual things."

_"And what were you wearing as you were doing these things?"_

"I did ask him to change," Martin interjected, leaning over the phone self-consciously. Several of the nearby tables had started to pay close attention.

_"Did you! And did he, in fact, follow this instruction?"_

"Not as such, no." Douglas smiled at a curious brunette, self-effacingly. He would probably end up getting her phone number, Martin brooded.

_"I see. Well, gentlemen, this leaves us with something of a conundrum on the credit side of things, and a distinct lack of passengers on the debit side."_

"Why?" Martin resorted to shielding the phone with his hand. "We've got the MPs coming back, don't we?"

_"We did. Note tense, as in past. It seems the conference has been extended for another day."_

"So we'll have to stay in D.C. overnight?" Sleep, in a proper bed! Martin wouldn't turn his nose up at it.

_"Would that you could! There's Tuesday's Athens flight to consider; you'd never make it on time."_

Martin leaned back. He felt a headache coming on; this felt suspiciously like trying to decide which bills to pay. "So we either stay here and lose the Athens job..."

"...or return without any paying passengers. Hence your conversation with the charming Mrs. Tourian, I gather?"

_"Precisely. For reasons entirely her own, she's heading on to Luton this evening, not that it's much help to us now."_

"Well, which job pays better?" Martin cast about for something edible. He hadn't had enough to deal with this.

_"If we must choose, the Athens flight will have to go. However, as always, there really is no room in our budget for this sort of thing. If we lose one flight, it'll have to come out of your salaries. Not yours, Martin, obviously."_

"Yes, all right." No need to rub it in.

_"Either find someone who needs a last minute flight to the UK and will jump at the chance to have a small, virtually unknown charter airline fly them there, or prepare for an uncomfortable night at the nearest airport hotel, for which I will not be paying."_

Oh god. Oh _god;_ a hotel. With an 'h'. Martin didn't even have the money for a proper bed of his own, much less to rent one at a semi-reputable establishment. "Carolyn, wait-"

_"No excuses, Martin. Let me know when to expect you back. Goodbye, and a very hearty farewell to everyone listening in. Please consider MJN for your travel needs the next time you are stuck in a god-forsaken airport."_

Martin put the phone down, defeatedly. "Well."

Politely waving away the drink the brunette had bought him, Douglas pursed his lips. "Not quite the way you would have preferred to celebrate your four year anniversary, eh, Martin?"

"Sorry... what?"

"Well... yes! That's what I was celebrating; didn't you know?" Arthur's voice begged attention in the manner of a small dog having just performed a trick.

"Oh _christ._ "

"Another round, then?"

Martin nodded. At least the drinks were rather caloric.

* * *

"Right; thanks very much for your time. And sorry about the coffee." With some effort, Martin managed to extricate himself from the conversational grip of the still-chattering elderly man, whose coffee Martin had accidentally spilled when he thought for a moment the man might be a Sean Connery gone to seed. In the last half hour, Martin had been asked to join three different religions, hit upon by a person of indeterminate gender (which made him nervous about either accepting and declining, for different reasons - in the end he had split the difference and run away), been asked if his parents knew he was collecting for charity and once, most embarrassingly, given a ten dollar bill by a sympathetic-looking woman who asked, discreetly, if he was the only little person in his family, adding that many people that were not of size could live perfectly normal lives, given the chance. He'd managed to escape before she started handing him leaflets. All in all the 'let's ask stand-by passengers if they need a lift' idea wasn't off to an ideal start. Perhaps Douglas and Arthur had been having more luck?

"I've not had much luck, I'm afraid." Douglas looked remarkably less smug than usual, as the three of them met by the inter-terminal shuttle. "Gates D and H were an unhappy, sulking lot, on the whole. Arthur, how were Gates C?"

"Oh, they were lovely! Quite sunny, still, and quite a few windows, so you can see the planes and that, taking off."

"Quite so. And the people?"

"They were lovely too!"

"But none of them," Martin persisted, "were in need of flights to England?"

Arthur deflated somewhat, a depressing sight. Rather like a kitten too sleepy to keep playing with its ball of yarn. "Not really, no."

Douglas sat down on one of the murky, grey benches that seemed to populate the airport's transit areas, and wiped his brow. "Well, gentlemen, that appears to be the proverbial 'it'. We've no return flight, no expense account, and no room for the night. I suggest we all arrange for the latter, and meet here tomorrow at 8 AM sharp, just in case. Unless anyone has a better suggestion?" He turned to Martin, who shook his head mournfully.

"We could go to the zoo?"

"Arthur..."

"No, but really; they've got an exhibit on otters and everything!" He pointed to a nearby poster, on which was featured a rather ridiculously sweet image of an otter parent and his or her offspring, the latter of which the former was carrying in his or her eerily human-like hands, presenting it as if to say; "here, take my firstborn; anything, so long as you can get me out of this god-forsaken airport!" Though perhaps that was over-analyzing.

"Arthur," Martin insisted, "we're not going to the zoo. We're going to find a place to sleep-"

"Separately..." Douglas warned. Martin knew exactly what he meant. The last time they had been forced to share a room, Arthur had kept them up with questions of the various features in the hotel room, the view from the tiny window and the city in which they were currently staying - Fresno, of which Martin could not remember a single feature now - and when he had finally fallen asleep, presumably from exhaustion, both Douglas and Martin had begun to snore, each waking the other then, loudly, proclaiming that _he_ had not been snoring.

"Separately," Martin agreed. Frankly, as it would allow him to double back and sleep in the airport, a 'different hotels' option was his preferred choice. "I think we should each find somewhere we like - there must be dozens of hotels nearby-"

"-dozens upon dozens, if memory serves."

"Right, so, we should really just get going. Erm, there's a service desk over there that has listings..."

"No need," Douglas rose with an air of relaxed defeat, "I know where I'm going. Shall we share a taxi, or do you two still need some time?"

"I'm... still considering, actually. But if Arthur has made up his mind-"

"Actually, I'd rather stay here for a bit, skip. See the sights."

"At the airport."

"Yes."

"At Dulles International Airport."

"Yeah? Wow, look over there; they've got cupcakes that look like watermelons!"

Douglas tipped his hat at Martin. He hadn't been wearing it a moment ago; he must have put it back on just so he could do that. "Have fun, you two."

* * *

As it turned out, the cupcakes that looked a bit like little cheesecakes were quite delicious, though nothing could tempt even Martin to go anywhere near the bright orangey-pink and neon green monstrosity Arthur was currently working his way through. Thankfully, the cupcakes had been Arthur's treat, though Martin always felt slightly uncomfortable accepting presents from the man; it was not entirely clear to him where Arthur's money came from. The idea that Carolyn paid him was both unthinkable and offensive, for myriad reasons, as was the idea that she didn't. There was a chance, and Martin was rather holding out for this one, that the money came from Mr. Shappey the elder, aka Gordon, and frankly, there was no one's money Martin would rather waste on novelty cupcakes in deplorable airports. 

Outside, night had long since fallen, and the expressions on the faces of waiting passengers on the benches surrounding them grew wearier and more drawn, but Martin's internal clock was showing barely past 4 PM. What Arthur's internal clock showed, or if he even had one, was debatable, but Arthur himself showed few or no signs of slowing down anything but the conversation between them. Which was unusual. The only times Arthur kept quiet like this was when he was either terrified or nervous, neither of which tended to bode particularly well for Martin. Besides which, what about Dulles International Airport could possibly make anyone nervous or terrified, other than in a purely existential sense? 

Martin brushed pink and white crumbs around on the napkin he had folded out on his lap and cast about desperately for a topic that would get some sort of conversation going. That should not be hard - this being Arthur Shappey - but Martin had never been able to think clearly under pressure. Every time he thought he might possibly have something, he was inevitably distracted by Arthur's outrageously pink outfit, which was now lightly drizzled with green. Oh, what the hell; it was something to talk about, wasn't it? "Arthur," he began, clearing his throat.

"Yes, Skip?"

"You never really got around to explaining about your lucky color."

"No," Arthur shook his head with vigour, dislodging a chunk of stray icing from his sleeve, "I did. It was when I was at the hospital, being a baby. As a baby, I mean. Being born. Well, after I was born."

"Yes, I know, but the bit about the blanket..." 

"Yeah, it saved me from being turned into a girl." 

Martin pondered this in silence for several moments. It was hard to decide just exactly where to start. "Who," he began, then changed his mind, "why..." That was no good either. " _How?_ " He decided, finally. "How could you possibly 'get turned into' a girl?"

"Mum told me, later. They chop the penises off little boys."

If Martin had still been reading, he would have choked. "They _what?_ "

"You know, newborns. They take them away and perform an operation - circumscription, I think it's called - which means they chop your... thingy off."

"Circumcision," Martin croaked, hoping to god he was right. 

"Yeah, that's it! Anyway, they thought I was a girl already, or they must have, on account of the blanket, and that's what stopped me from having one. And now I'm a boy!" 

"Arthur, that's not..." Martin shook his head, quietly. There were quite a few things that was _not_ , and while they had considerable time to waste, there were limits to the ways in which Martin were prepared to waste it. "They don't chop the whole thing off," he began, deciding to tackle the least convoluted misunderstanding, "they remove... bits of it."

Arthur frowned. "Why?"

Martin shrugged. "You've got me there. It's fairly popular in America, for some reason; I didn't think they did it much in British hospitals if you aren't religious."

"Well, it was in America. In Boston; dad had a meeting. I don't really remember any of it, it's just things mum and dad told me later. I've sort of pieced it together."

That made sense, Martin supposed, but... "Why did Carolyn have to be there? She would have been..." The thought of a pregnant Carolyn was a little too much for Martin's already overtaxed mind - he shook the image off. 

Arthur made a slightly flustered, non-committal gesture. "Someone had to make the coffee." 

"Right." 

They sat in silence for another awkward few moments. Well, awkward for Martin; Arthur seemed to shake these things off. 

"So..." Martin said, eventually, as the last call for Minneapolis rang across the room. He'd never been to Minneapolis, he thought, distractedly. He barely knew where it was. "You're wearing your lucky color to celebrate my anniversary at MJN." 

"Well... yeah." Arthur shuffled his sequined feet; quite an accomplishment while sitting down. "I mean, I love you." 

Martin smiled. That was Arthur, 110 percent hyperbole. "That's sweet of you to say, Arthur."

"No," Arthur turned slightly, looking unusually serious in the airport's garish lighting, "I mean, I _love_ , love you. I... sort of always have."

Martin blinked. None of those words made any sense. Even less so than the ones Arthur usually said. "I..."

"It's all right," Arthur said, hurriedly, "I know you don't return it, or anything. I don't mind; it's brilliant just loving you." He sat up, looking rather relieved. "I should go ring mum, she told me to let her know when I found somewhere to spend the night."

Arthur was halfway across the length of the gate area when Martin realized what he'd actually said. 

Love. 

Loved him. Someone _loved_ him?

* * *

The awkward thing about Carolyn paying his phone bill was that every call itemized on the bill (and they all would be, every single one) would, he knew, be scrutinized in close detail. All in all, Martin felt it best to leave Arthur a note on the bench they'd sat on. Or possibly _in_ ; it looked and felt like it had gone through at least a decade of hard wear and tear.

_Found a hotel nearby, see you in the morning._

He had agonized over what to sign it, finally compromising on nothing at all, considering that he'd written it on the cupcake-stained napkin which was the only paper around. Thankfully, Martin always had a pen.

There were, indeed, 'dozens upon dozens' of available hotels nearby, but Martin had spent many a boring flight with Douglas during which the latter had expanded on weekends spent here and there in his time with Air Britain, and though Dulles had never been mentioned, Washington D.C. had. One hotel in particular. The shuttles were free, so the gamble was hardly significant, and if all else failed, Martin had something with which to occupy himself for the rest of the night. He found the right one, straightened his uniform as if to underline the fact that it was there, and settled in for the fifteen minute ride. He couldn't quite focus on the darkened scenery.

 _Loved_ him. Somebody loved him.

Martin came from a fairly loving family, his father's behavior in later years notwithstanding, and overall, there was no shortage of hugs or support or kind words, or cups of Horlics and sympathy when you were down. It wasn't his upbringing; it was _everyone else_. Flying was easier than people. Martin had concentrated on that, for which, at least, there were schools and exams and very firm, clear rules that you could actually learn. He'd had one or two girlfriends, and he'd pined after enough people to fill a phone book (or possibly porn site) or two, but that word had never come up. He'd never expected it to. When you live in the attic of a student flat for the better part of a decade, your expectations get rather low overall.

_Love._

Funny word. It sat in Martin's mind, glowing softly, displacing other thoughts that came nearby. He poked at it, gently.

"Hey you, in the novelty uniform?"

"I'm a pilot, actually," Martin snapped, the reply coming automatically. He'd been miles away. Which, of course, they had also driven, by this point.

"This your stop?"

Martin looked around. Night had fallen somewhat ruthlessly, but the lit-up sign proclaiming 'Holiday Inn' wasn't difficult to make out. "No, no. Mine's the _International_."

The driver shook his head, irritably. "We passed that three stops ago; you'll have to come around with me again."

* * *

The very carefully polite woman in reception gave him the room number when she thankfully remembered the uniform, though she did remark that it 'looked different on the other Captain'. Equally carefully refraining from correcting her, Martin thanked her, and headed for the elevators. They were huge, stainless steel and glass things, suspended over a central garden area. This being an American hotel, there was, of course, some sort of noise playing in the background, but here it was gentle chattering of birds and a soft rustling of leaves rather than tinny faux-classical music. Martin was allergic to most birds and the sound made him skittish, but the hotel, he reasoned, wasn't to know that.

Floor 12 was nearly identical to the floor Martin had accidentally gotten off on before it, plush carpets, softly ocher-colored walls and all. There it was; room 1215, overlooking the garden (of course). Martin raised his hand, hesitating just slightly before knocking. There was an equal pause before the door was answered by a jacketless, but still mostly dressed Douglas.

"Martin," he said, looking the other up and down, "while I'm quite flattered and not entirely surprised, I must tell you that, being fresh out of a long term relationship, I feel I could not possibly..."

"Yes, fine. Very funny."

The look on Douglas's face was almost paternal. "Oh dear. He actually told you, did he?"

"Look, just let me in, would you?"

Douglas did.

* * *

"Why am I always the last person to know anything? Even when it's about _me_?" Martin huddled in the corner of the sofa, his arms full of spare bedding. One advantage to being short was the fact that you could comfortably sleep on more or less any seating, and this particular sofa was both ample and comfortable. Not that either was helping, right now. "Why would he tell you, for god's sake?"

"Martin, _please_ go to sleep."

"I just want to know why he told _you_ , and not me."

"He didn't."

"He... didn't?"

"No."

"Then how..."

"The fact may surprise you, but even co-pilots these days require 20/20 vision."

"Eh?"

"I'm not _blind_."

"Oh." Martin turned towards the window. The curtains were drawn, but he was close enough to see through the cracks, just about, through to the lush green scene below. It looked rather peaceful. "And I am, I suppose."

Douglas sighed, in his deep baritone. Even his sighs were rich and sonorous; it was ridiculous. "You said you didn't want to talk about it."

"I don't."

"Of course. Which is why you sought me out in the middle of the night, so as to more easily avoid conversation."

"Fine; I'll shut up."

"Good man. And good night."

The room seemed darker with the quiet. Martin shifted until his buttocks were neatly wedged between the cushions. "It's just..."

Another sonorous sigh. " _Yes?_ "

"I don't... understand _why?_ " Martin expected another easy jab at his looks, but instead, Douglas took some time in replying.

"I'll admit this is rather cruel of me, but I really _must_ get some sleep; I feel it's vital that at least one of us is of sound mind tomorrow: Have you considered that might not be the most pertinent question to ask yourself?"

Martin frowned. "What do you mean."

"I mean, and I really am sorry Martin, this will be an all-nighter for you, Arthur is a man."

"And?"

" _And_ , that fact didn't cross your mind before now."

Martin made a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a startled cat. "N... no. I... d... I don't..."

"So sorry; goodnight." Within moments, gentle snoring filled the room as Martin's thoughts swirled frenetically.

 _Bastard_ , he thought in Douglas's direction.

* * *

”Coffee?”

Martin very nearly jumped out of the pilot’s seat as the paper cup was thrust under his nose. The smell did go some ways towards waking him up, however, and he took a moment to contemplate how life so often tended to add these little helpful treats within the lunchbox of catastrophe it usually packed him. Arthur was still holding the cup and, as always, smiling. “Thank you,” Martin finally managed, taking it.

“What’s on your mind, Skip?”

“Lunchboxes.”

“Eh?”

“I wouldn’t bother.” Douglas laid a large, consoling hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “He’s been like that all morning – I’m sure he’ll rejoin the land of the land of the living at some point. Hopefully before we’re airborne.”

Martin considered glaring, but what use would it be? Douglas well knew the reason why Martin hadn’t slept a wink; the same reason he now jumped at being offered coffee, and the same reason he had hidden behind a sign advertising free Wi-Fi (which wasn’t, incidentally, free) when he realized the person of indeterminate gender who had been flirting with him yesterday was still here, and still interested. Though, presumably, not after he or she had seen him trip on the wiring, perhaps ironically, powering the sign, then his own feet, and finally one of the chairs at the business center opposite, which unfortunately had been occupied by a businesswoman the repair of whose skirt Martin now had promised to pay for. Hopefully he would be out of the country before she tried to cash that check. Martin didn’t like it, but occasions such as these were the main reason why he still carried a checkbook. But yes, Douglas knew well enough the reason for all those these things, and frankly, he had no business putting consoling hands on that reason’s shoulder. Well, no; that wasn’t fair. It was hardly Arthur’s fault that he felt what he… felt. Felt for _him_. Martin downed most of his coffee in one hasty, ill-advised gulp.

“Any word from Carolyn?” Douglas asked, with the air of a man who already knew the answer.

“Actually, she rang just now.”

Douglas’s eyes widened. “Did she?”

“Yeah, Ms. Tourian called again – apparently her flight was cancelled twice, and now she’s quite desperate to get to Luton.”

“An aviation first,” Douglas muttered.

“She said she’d be willing to pay anything, so long as,” Arthur blushed, “so long as we could guarantee that she would only have to interact with Americans.”

“Well, we don’t need her or her money, do we?” Martin huffed, checking his belt once again. He was caffeinated and sexually confused, and was rather desperate to get to grips with something he knew how to do. “Any signs of the passengers, yet?”

“I’ll go and check,” Arthur offered, rushing off and returning before either Martin or Douglas could get a word in. “Nope, aisles still empty.”

“Wouldn’t you,” Douglas asked carefully, “have noticed them coming in?”

“Normally,” Arthur agreed, “but it never hurts to check.”

“Well, they still have twenty minutes. If you gentlemen would excuse me a moment.” Douglas, who had not yet sat down, made for the cockpit door.

“Where are you going?” Martin hissed in near-panic, making little nods in Arthur’s direction.

“To evacuate my bowels, if you must know. It’s this tiresome habit I’ve picked up from eating and digesting food.”

“Fine,” Martin cringed, “just make it quick.”

“I’ll give it my all.” And so saying, Douglas tipped his hat, which Martin could swear he had, once more, donned specifically for that specific purpose. And then they were alone. He and Arthur.

For quite a few moments, neither of them said anything. Martin wondered if he could get away with counting down the minutes in his head, an idea so absurdly rude that it dawned on him just how childish he was being. He had left Arthur on his own in the middle of the night, when _Arthur_ had just wanted to keep him company. Martin had to broach the subject, somehow; apologize and make amends. He just had to find the right angle. “So…” he began, cringing even at that first syllable.

“Yes, Skip?”

“How did you get on, last night?”

“I had a fantastic time! I had coffee, and then I found a shop that sold, you know, clothes and things.”

“Yes,” Martin waved his cup at the general non-pinkness of Arthur’s outfit, “I did wonder about that.”

“I mean, it’s not my regular uniform, but then like you pointed out, we don’t have one.”

“Right.”

“And then,” Arthur ticked the items off on his fingers, “I had coffee again, rode on the travelators for a bit, had some more coffee, played _Angry Birds_ until my phone shut down, had coffee again, and then I found one of those sleeper chairs that they have for people who have long layovers between flights, only I couldn’t sleep because I’d had too much coffee.”

“Um, right.” Martin scratched his head, just below the lining of his hat, where it sometimes got too hot and stuffy. “Arthur, why did you-”

“I really like coffee!”

“No, I mean… why did you…” Seeing Arthur’s open, beaming face, Martin suddenly realized that wasn’t the right question. “I didn’t know you were gay.” That wasn’t even a question. Nor much of an apology, really.

“I’m not gay.”

“You’re not.” Martin tasted that statement. It seemed off, rather like the coffee.

“No, I’m not. I like… _people_ , I suppose.”

Martin nodded. _That_ fit. Arthur did like people. More than anyone Martin had ever met. “Well, I don’t like people. And on the whole, people don’t tend to like me, not beyond the ‘nice to see you this morning Martin’ cheery co-workery, neighborly sort of forced chumminess that everyone gets and no one seems to mind. I suppose they don’t mind because they also have real friends, and I…” Martin swallowed.

Arthur looked at him attentively, earnestly, waiting for more words. When none came, he sort of shrugged, and reached for Martin’s empty cup. “Top you up then, Skip?”

“No!” Martin held onto the cup, protectively, voice rising in irritation.

“I could do you some tea?”

“ _No!_ ” Martin yanked the cup back, sending a startled Arthur two confused steps back. “I’m all set for hot beverages, _thank you._ And please don’t offer me lemonade or… or Appletiser or whatever else you’ve got back in there,” he waved in the general direction of the galley, from which Douglas was now emerging, looking glum.

“Nothing for me either, thank you.” Douglas held up his phone, which was clearly a brand new-ish Android or whatever they were called; not an iPhone, not for Douglas. Martin would feel more resentful if it wasn’t for the Caller ID on the screen, which read, simply: Here Be Dragons.

“Oh,” Arthur said, ubiquitous cheerfulness mixing with surprise, “is Mum calling?”

* * *

“I don’t understand,” Martin said for the fifteenth time, accepting another refill from Arthur’s seemingly endless pot of what had to be tea. They were huddled around Douglas’s swank phone, brows, Arthur’s included, furrowing further as Carolyn’s explanations wore on. “How could the entire delegation get on the wrong flight without anyone noticing?”

_“Apparently, there was some problem with the electricity – half the signs in the departure gate D area were out. Some idiot tripped over a piece of wiring and didn’t think to alert anyone.”_

“Oh dear,” Douglas said, with remarkable lack of inflection.

“But they announce the destination! It’s on their boarding passes! Wouldn’t they notice; wouldn’t the cabin crew notice,” Martin could feel himself growing hysterical, “didn’t anyone _notice?_ ”

“Well,” Douglas sat back, reflecting, “it’s funny how these things go. We misplaced an entire cricket team on an Air England flight once; they turned up in New Zealand two days later, none the worse for wear.”

“You can’t just _misplace_ passengers!”

_“Be that as it may, this yet again leaves us without paying customers. Gentlemen; you have a flight to Brno in just over twenty-four hours – am I going to have to cancel that, as well? Because if so, you may as well consider your careers cancelled along with it.”_

“But _mum!_ ”

_“Not you, dear boy. I cannot take away what does not exist.”_

“But losing the passengers wasn’t our fault!”

_“Quite so, and I’m sure, in the fullness of time, our respective lawyers will reach a similar conclusion. Meanwhile, however, there is the trifling matter of legal expenses to be considered.”_

Douglas set his cup down with finality. “I suppose that settles it; we have to go crawling back to Mrs. Tourian.”

_“Douglas, what has Arthur been feeding you? We cannot possibly meet her demands!”_

“She wants American crew members.” Something was prodding at the back  
of Martin’s mind. He felt a bit like he had when they’d taken Mr. Berling to Paris. That tingling, unnerving sort-of-understanding that was just out of his reach. The way he’d felt when that attractive man-or-woman had flirted with him – no, hang on…

“ _And_ she said she’d pay ‘anything’ for it. Carolyn, is she still at the airport?”

_“I imagine so, but-”_

“Excellent! Call her back and tell her we agree to her terms, providing, of course, she signs our standard contract, to which I will be making some very minor additions. Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have your passport with you?”

“Well, yes.”

“ _Good._ ”

* * *

Martin knew there was a German word for taking pleasure in the misery of others, but even if he could remember what it was, he couldn’t find it in him to feel… whatever it was called for Mrs. Tourian. Actually flying the plane tended to take up most of his concentration when conditions were difficult, and sometimes even when they weren’t so difficult, but true to form for the past few days, conditions on this flight were downright _dull_ , and so… And, so, Martin had quite a lot of time to think. Douglas was being unusually quiet, and therefore not much help. Quite possibly, he was waiting for Martin to ask his advice, and Martin would rather fly every single remaining flight in his MJN career – which was no longer in danger – in absolute silence than doing so. Douglas would break first. Damn him, Martin would _make_ him break first. The man was so curious you could smell it, although that could also be the cheese tray.

The coffee, and to some extent the tea, had helped a lot. The person who invented coffee deserved some sort of medal, Martin thought. Made of beans. Or featuring beans. Or possibly both. Then, if he or she ever spent a night in a hotel room with a loudly snoring colleague while reconsidering the basic principles of their sexual orientation, they could grind it down, mix it with hot water, and drink it. They would need it.

The problem, Martin pondered, wasn't that a man was in love with him. Not really. The problem was that a man was in love with him, and Martin hadn't given gender so much as a second thought. Not even a first thought, actually. And what did that _mean?_ Obviously, someone else falling in love with him didn't say anything about what _Martin_ felt. But that was just it; Martin hadn't minded. Not minding was the same as agreeing, wasn't it? Thinking it was all right? So he was _all right_ with the fact that a man was in love with him.

"The word you're looking for," Douglas said with an easy air, "is _schadenfreude_."

"Is it really?" Martin did not question how Douglas knew what he was thinking. Douglas always knew what he was thinking. It was best not to think about it.

"Quite a common word in the Nordic languages, actually; in Norwegian, it's-"

He was doing it on purpose now; he had to be! Martin clenched his teeth and set his gaze firmly on the altimeter. "You know I don't like talking about Norway after what happened at Torp; as your Captain, I forbid you to talk about it!"

"That will certainly make next Tuesday's flight to Trondheim something of an experience."

"You're feeling it right now, aren't you?"

"I've always considered the Scandinavian countries more an experience than a feeling..."

"Schadenfreude!" Martin snapped, clenching his hands on the controls. "You're enjoying watching me suffer; you _liked_ seeing me toss and turn all night while you slept soundly."

"Martin..."

"And _yes,_ I know it's not possible for you to do both of those things at the same time, but I'm not entirely sure Arthur isn't right; you might BE magic. You always fix everything, and you know exactly who you are and who you want to be and who you want to be with..."

"And you don't?" Douglas's voice was so calm, so... for want of a better word, this being Douglas, _kind_ , that it took Martin a moment to recognize it.

"I..." Martin tapped the console with a fingertip, watching the dials do the things dials are supposed to do. Presumably; one never quite knew with GERTI's instruments. "I never really got around to it, you know? Girls were just sort of _there_ , and you're supposed to like them, and I did - I do - but it's nothing I ever sat down and thought about. It's not like I've had a wealth of offers from either side." Were there more than two sides to this equation? Martin didn't even know _that_.

There came a muffled yell from the passenger section, followed by the distinctive sound of a plastic food tray thrown against a reasonably tall steward, followed again by muffled apologies. Martin and Douglas both ignored it; they were quite used to it by now. They counted silently to 'twenty' in synchrony, waiting for the cockpit door to open, which it promptly did.

"Did she ask to see your passport again," Douglas asked, casually.

Arthur leaned against the door, as if suspecting it might spring open with the force of an outraged American executive. "She keeps doing that! Why does she keep doing that?"

"Because you're an American citizen," Martin explained, for what was probably the fifth time. He was beginning to lose count. "We explained all that; weren't you listening?"

"But I'm not though; I'm English! And a little bit Australian."

"Didn't it ever occur to you that your passport has United States of America written on it?"

Arthur pulled it out of his trousers pockets - not that Martin was looking in that direction, particularly - and inspected it carefully. "I don't know, I've never really thought about it."

"But you use it practically every day!"

"Yeah, I know, but... it's just sort of there, isn't it?"

"You'd have to renew it at the American Embassy; didn't that ring any bells?" _You didn't notice either,_ Martin chided himself. He was the captain; he should know his own crew! Still, what good was he when he didn't even know his own sexual orientation. He turned his attention back to the instrument panel.

Arthur shrugged, looking anxiously at the door again. "I just thought that was because I go there a lot. Do I have to go back out there?"

Douglas inclined his head. "Afraid so, cowboy. Strictly stipulated by the contract."

"Well..." Arthur gave the door a final, fearful glance. "I suppose I have to, then." He opened it, and stepped into the dull, grey yonder.

Martin watched him go.

"Brave lad," Douglas muttered. "Taking the cow by the horns."

"Bull. Taking the bull by the horn; cows don't have horns."

Douglas raised an eyebrow half-heartedly, as if this was a matter of debate and context. "How would you know?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing."

* * *

"You don't have to give me a ride home, Skip." Arthur seemed just as excited to be in a rented Skoda Octavia as he was every time GERTI took off. Sometimes the sight of that much enthusiasm left Martin exhausted enough to get a migraine, but not right now. Douglas had opted to stay the night in Luton, saying something about 'old friends' and those, Martin knew, were very nearly always female and attractive, and not really that old.

"That's all right; you don't have your car here, and it'd be a bit of a taxi ride to Fitton, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, I suppose it would be. I'm just glad we got here, really."

Martin nodded. This trip hadn't been quite fair on Arthur all in all, had it? In rather a lot of ways. He risked turning sideways for a moment as he carefully started the engine - it didn't pay get sloppy about these things - and noticed for the first time how _young_ Arthur looked. He _was_ young, of course; younger than Martin, certainly, which was depressing in a lot of ways, but he appeared even younger when his face was relaxed and he wasn't grinning inanely. And now he was looking back at Martin.

"Something wrong?"

 _I wish I knew_. "Oh. Sorry. No." Ease into gear, mirrors checked, and they were off.

Arthur fiddled with his seatbelt. Fiddling meant thinking, like Arthur's brain needed his body to be moving in order to work more efficiently. "Except..."

"Except what?"

"Except I could have taken the train, couldn't I?"

Martin didn't turn, then. There was quite a lot to concentrate on, after all; the road, the traffic, the mirrors, the... the road. And the traffic.

"To get home, I mean. They run fairly often."

"Mm," Martin said, flicking the indicator switch. _Turn right here. Left at the underpass. Then straight on. Straight on, all the way._

"It's much nicer this, though."

"Why?" _Underpass. Left at the underpass._

Arthur gave a little sigh of frustration, and Martin wished he could see him, but there was the, well, the road and the traffic, and the mirrors, in one of which he could see Arthur's worried face. _Worried_. Only decades of driving lessons kept Martin from veering off the road in panic. _Straight on, all the way,_ he thought, as if Google maps was the answer to any one of life's little problems.

"No, really," Martin squealed, clutching the wheel. "I don't understand. I really don't understand. I'm not a nice person, I don't like people, I'm not gay, and you don't know who I am. _I_ don't know who I am!"

They drove in silence for several moments, as Arthur seemed to consider this. "Well," he said, eventually, "we've got about an hour 'til Fitton."

"An hour." To Martin, a man who routinely spent two to three hours getting dressed in the morning before work, the idea that anything could be accomplished in less than 50 minutes (at this point, according to the printout he'd forgotten to bring but had memorized) was on the level of evidence of extraterrestrial life.

"Just about." Arthur leaned forward, and pointed resolutely at the next intersection. "Take a right here."

"N... no, I'm - I mean - it's straight ahead from here. All the way to Fitton."

"Yeah, but it's easier this way." Arthur caught his eye in the mirror, and smiled. Presumably; the mirror wasn't large enough to show.

Martin exhaled slowly, for what felt like the first time in his life. _It's easier this way._

As it turned out, Arthur was right.

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoyed this fic? There is now a stand-alone follow-up [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2075268)!


End file.
